


Blinking Blue Light

by gentlearmor



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2012-03-01
Updated: 2012-03-14
Packaged: 2017-10-31 22:36:43
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 8,404
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/349067
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/gentlearmor/pseuds/gentlearmor
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>While John Watson is on holiday, Sherlock Holmes is still working on cases.  And steaming human heads.  And wondering what a mysterious blue light is doing on his phone.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Part One

**Author's Note:**

> The following story contains a case about a murdered mother with heavy evidence of having abused her child. I try not to be too graphic regarding this content, but there will be necessary descriptions along the way. I feel it's most effective to allow you to let you wonder about it some.
> 
> I don't pretend to be a pro at writing, or writing Sherlock, and I'm American trying to stay true to certain terminology. I might slip up, and I apologize in advance. <3 This is also the first story I'm putting on an archive site in literally years, so.
> 
> Thank you for taking the time to read!

He first took notice of it one night when he was playing out the solo piece of a concerto.  It was glaring up at him, as if calling out for attention.  He ignored it, however.  It was out of place but harmless.  It even added a little color to an otherwise dreary neighborhood.  
  
His attention was rapidly shifting, however, and the blinking blue light on 221B Baker Street was often forgotten until the next time he was sitting and relaxing—as much as one Sherlock Holmes could relax, anyway.   
  
The newest job seemed so simple at first, and it was close to home to boot.  Actually, who was he kidding?  John was off traveling and he was bored.  A trip himself would have been welcome.  Of course, he couldn’t leave his head—which was the first thing Mrs. Hudson found while he was getting changed to leave.  “Sh-Sherlock…” she stammered as she walked to the mouth of the hallway where he was testing on scarves of only vaguely different shades.  “You’ve a human head on your stove.”  
  
“Don’t touch it,” Sherlock warned flatly, still too busy with a navy blue scarf.  “And don’t lift the lid on the pot again.  I’m steaming it.”  
  
“I just thought you were cooking for yourself,” the older woman said as she watched.  “I was so excited for you.”  
  
“That would be cannibalism, Mrs. Hudson.”  Sherlock snorted as he decided the grey scarf would do better, and wrapped it around his neck in characteristic fashion.  “Precarious.”  
  
“I don’t find pleasure in eating humans,” she objected, quite offended.  
  
Sherlock sidled up and, with gentle and gloved hands, moved her to the side as he stepped past.  “You’re the one that brought it up.”  
  
“Where are you off to?  You can’t leave that there, just steaming!”  
  
“I can, I will, and off to solve crimes deemed horrific by the standard morality of society.”  He clucked his tongue as he swayed around, flinging open his flat’s door.  “Just spray air freshener about.”  Because he knew her next objection would be the smell of a head being subjected to speedful decomposition.  She really did have such normal standards of living and sensibility, didn’t she?  
  
For then, the blue light was forgotten.  
  
***  
  
“Where the hell have you been?” Detective Inspector Lestrade asked as he met Sherlock at his cab.  “I’ve been trying to keep the body here for you, they’re just about to take her away.”  
  
“Cannibalism debate.”  Flipping up his collar to align with his cheekbones, Sherlock strutted past and for the doors of the building currently taped off by the police on scene.  
  
Lestrade knew better than to actually ask, but he did feel his mouth gape open a bit as he followed in after Sherlock.  The things that man was consistently up to was disturbing beyond reason.  He followed Sherlock up a set of narrow stairs, where the horrific scene laid ahead.  
  
It was a scene of total brutality.  A woman, splayed on the ground and flayed like a fish.  Due to the essential evidence gathering, the blood patterns had yet to be disturbed.  Sherlock stopped within an inch of the main pool and looked over the woman carefully.  In her mid-thirties easily, she was dirty beyond the grotesque scene.  Her flat was unkempt.  It wasn’t the work of a desperate thief, though.  That much was certain.  
  
“We guess it must have been honestly just for the murder,” Lestrade said.  
  
“Must have been.  Where’s her child?” Sherlock asked mutely.  
  
The question attracted several looks from scene investigators, and Lestrade walked around to look at him.  “Child?”  
  
Sherlock groaned, rolling his eyes as his head dropped back.  “She’s a mother.  There’s not much evidence of it, so I shouldn’t expect any of you to notice it.”  He pointed over to the small table sitting by the kitchenette (as it was not much bigger than) of the flat.  “The chairs are cocked towards each other close.  There’s a bowl on one side, not on the other.  Phone books in that other seat make for an excellent makeshift booster seat.  I would say the child is a toddler, lest our victim was a completely inept parent, and the child was younger.  It is possible she was that inept, since there are no drawings, no toys, no child-proofing of the home.”  
  
“Jesus, we’re dealing with a kidnapping too, then?”  
  
Sherlock rolled his eyes.  By then, Lestrade had become intuitive enough with the Passive Aggressiveese that Sherlock spoke and acted with to know he needed to send out an alert for a missing child.  As he left the area, Sherlock took a fancy to a door off to the left.  It appeared untouched, and he was replacing his leather gloves with rubber ones as he neared it with careful steps.  Despite his juggernaut style of investigating, evidence was a beautiful thing that needed to be preserved.  
  
He would ignore arguments as to why he chose to never wear more than rubber gloves if that was how he felt.  
  
He looked over the doorknob, placing his fingers carefully as to not affect any blood splatter that had made its way over there.  Something smelled putrid just under the crack at the floor, and he knew the investigators would have been so preoccupied with the main room, they wouldn’t have bothered with the rest of the apartment.  Had they realized a child was involved, they would have.  
  
The small area was dark beyond.  A string dangled from the ceiling, which Sherlock tugged to click on the light.  
  
There wasn’t a child in there, but it was easy to see there had been.  He recoiled slightly, something about the scene striking the more human parts of him that Sherlock tried so desperately to deny in himself.  
  
The closet was a pit of child based human filth.  Covering the walls, alongside feces, appeared to be blood and long scratches clawing at the wood.  The carpet was worn down from that same filth, of a body left to sit there for days, maybe even weeks, on end.  The door locked from the outside.  The scratches were tiny, and the deceased’s nails were large.  
  
Sherlock started building scenarios.  
  
An abusive mother entrapping her child of a gender he had yet to determine in a closet unless she wants to play Mommy.  The gender could not be guessed because abuse rarely was specific unless held in a religious or traditional fashion.  The woman was single, or at least not married, because nothing in her home spoke of a couple and she wore no jewelry or even had impressions of stolen jewelry.  
  
It wasn’t a robbery.  It was a deliberate, premeditated homicide.  
  
The child.  The child could have been heard crying in the closet and the murderer took the child because it piqued his interest.  Sherlock presumed it was a male murdered only because female murderers very rarely turned their victims into pieces of artwork.  It was a programming thing.  Women were passionate, men were voyeuristic.  Oh yes, there could be exceptions to the rules always, but statistically the murder scene he stood in the middle of was perpetrated by men.  
  
Maybe the child was of special interest all along.  The haunting idea that it was a kill of an angry father, trying to rescue his child, was certainly possible.  Humans were capable of going absolutely primal for their children, if they were wired correctly.  
  
Sherlock leaned down, a protected finger rolling a small paper cup around on the closet floor.  Part of it had been gnawed away.  The child was hungry.  Sherlock didn’t want to admit to the small pang in his stomach, or to the fact that he was grateful John was off… somewhere.  He never did well when it involved children.  But John was a normal man.  He would be an excellent father to someone, someday.  
  
“Bloody…” Lestrade breathed as he returned, looking over Sherlock’s shoulder.  “Who would do something like this to a child?”  
  
Sherlock stood up, one hand in his pocket as he hung the one he was exploring with to his side.  “A monster.  Lestrade, I want her employment and relationship history.”  
  
“Already working on it,” Lestrade replied.  He was getting quick to predict Sherlock’s requests.  Sherlock nodded as he went to leave the room.  He’d inspect the victim more once she was with Molly.  Lestrade trailed behind him.  “Where’s John?  Not helping this time?”  
  
“He’s out of the country,” Sherlock replied.  Again, it was for the best.  Especially because Sherlock felt an impending crisis of emotions and that tended to make him cranky.  Then John told him to calm down, but to let it out, and that was just confusing too.  Calm down would mean not letting it out.  “Send the information to my phone.  And let me know when the victim is ready for autopsy.”  
  
***  
  
The victim’s name was Janessa Kellog.  She worked just a few blocks away, at a local market.  It was managed by a few older individuals who clearly liked to keep management positions with family.  Kellog was a shelving attendant, he learned as he looked at the employee roster they displayed with pride on the walls.  
  
She looked quite cheerful in that image, Sherlock noticed.  Thinner.  Likely it was taken before she had the child, but how often did she go to work in smiles while her child was hidden away like a scandalous object?  
  
Sherlock walked over to the service station and put on his best smile.  He always wondered how people didn’t think he looked like a snake trying to offer them forbidden food products that would kill them or at least make someone very cross with them.  “‘ello!” he chirped.  “Is Janessa here?”  
  
“She’s not scheduled until tomorrow,” the woman replied.  She was an older woman, just starting to show the signs of crows feet around her eyes.  Her lips were still full, naturally so, and Sherlock guessed she was in her mid forties for that reason.  “Are you a friend of hers?”  
  
“Actually, I own a small shop over in Enfield, and she was interviewing with me.”  Sherlock leaned in, giving his best, warm smile.  It burned.  “I know this is unprofessional of me, but I was hoping to get a feel of her in her ‘natural habitat’.  Have you a manager available?”  
  
“She’s been looking for a job elsewhere,” the woman said, sounding suddenly less pleasant before.  
  
“Oh!”  Sherlock plopped a hand out at her as though trying to comfort her.  “Are you the manager?  I don’t mean to get her into trouble.  It’s just that it’s for children.  Toys and the like, and interviews are well and good, but I like to see what my potential employees are like day to day.”  
  
“Understandable,” the woman, badge reading MORRIS, muttered.  She was clearly unhappy at the idea of Janessa Kellog leaving, and Sherlock was going to exploit that until he got what he wanted, or she figured out how weak his story was.  “She’s fine.  I wouldn’t put her around children though.”  
  
Sherlock’s face fell.  “Oh?  Why not?”  Mrs. Morris.  She had a ring on her finger, well-worn but clearly rebuilt because it meant something.  
  
“She’s not very intelligent,” Mrs. Morris said.  She moved in a little closer to the younger man, resting her hands on the table.  “She’s a good stocking girl, but the fact that she can care for herself is amazing.  Pretty sure it’s all the partying she gets on with on the weekends.”  
  
Social engineering was a beautiful thing.  It played on the good faith of people, naturally trusting unless something made them do different.  “That’s a shame to hear.  She seemed so cheerful.”  
  
“That she was.  Which was nice to see considering she had an ex-boyfriend always showing up, being shouty in front of customers and the like.  He seemed disturbed.  Always shouting about a kid he believed she had, always threatening to take her to court.  She hasn’t got a kid, though.”  
  
Interesting.  So, the kid really was some secret little item to her.  “That sounds absolutely horrifying for her!  What was his name?”  He was asking in case he wanted to employ her, after all.  
  
“Jordan… Jordan something.  I don’t quite remember.”  
  
Sherlock nodded, his facade fading as he simply clucked his tongue and rapped his gloved knuckles on the counter.  “Good.  That’s all.”  
  
The demeanor from warm and inquisitive to suddenly cold and final had to be jarring to Mrs. Morris, who was left to stare at him as he straightened to start walking around the market.  Sherlock absorbed the information slowly, only because he didn’t want to be over-presumptuous.  It was an ugly, disgusting situation.  He viewed the chase as a game, but there was a reality there that he oft forgot when he was amidst others.  He lost it in the act of being him.  
  
No one knew about the child.  Did she invite people to her imperfect little hovel, and force the child to be silent in the closet?  Or did she invite them, and they knew, and did nothing?  The world was a wicked place, and Sherlock imagined either scenario was possible.  
  
He pulled out his cell phone, drawing up a text message to Lestrade.  That blue light blinked on his phone’s edge still, but since his mind was on other things, he seemed to ignore the fact that his eyes trailed to it every so often.  
  


  _**ex-boyfriend was named jordan something. seen at her work demanding his child. everyone thought he was stalking her. —SH**_

  
 A moment later, when Sherlock made it to the produce section, his phone plucked out a single chime to notify of Lestrade’s response.  
 _  
_ _**jordan cranehill she had txts 2 him & emals 2**_  
  
Sherlock sighed at the atrocious formatting, but left it alone.  Even John wasn’t that bad.  
  
    _**address? —SH**_  
  
The address was sent as soon as possible, along with:  
  
    **_dont u dare go by urself_**  
  
 His phone and his odd, blinking blue light was tucked into the pocket inside his jacket lapel, as Sherlock refused to let Lestrade blind him with his inabilities any longer, and he headed off to the address provided.


	2. Part Two

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> With this part, I did try to do some research regarding geography that I'm more specific to. I didn't have too many resources to really reference, so I'm putting this under the guise of 'fiction' if I've massively screwed it up. sdjgsegliskdjg This whole thing is becoming more of a 'how does a Sherlock work alone in a post-Johnpocalyptic world?' writing than anything. Hooboy.
> 
> Thanks for your time in reading, again!

The house was a step up from Janessa's home.  It was a standalone house wedged amidst a long line of similar looking homes.  Only the hedges and various lawn decorations really differentiated the domestic dwellings from each other.  They were small, some disputably the same size of his own flat, but they were independent.  A lot of people seemed to enjoy that idea.  They put emphasis on the idea of not hearing voices, or sirens, or footsteps.  Considering Sherlock Holmes was the worst offender of all when it came to that, it was no wonder he didn't mind.  
  
It was nearing nine in the evening when Sherlock's taxi arrived at the address, numbered 392.  He swung out and figured an act was unnecessary.  The child was priority, and it sounded as though the man would understand that.  The woman at the store confirmed he was hysterical to have access to his child.  Having a strong presence at his door, trying to resolve the crime, would be the ideal for a worried father.  If he wasn't guilty.  Sherlock would know soon enough.  
  
When Jordan Cranehill answered the door, he looked surprised to see the finely dressed man standing on his doorstep.  They were completely different in appearance.  Where Sherlock was tall, a bit thin, and dressed very well, Cranehill was shorter than John, muscular, but scruffy with a vest on that looked older than he did.  
  
"What?" he asked, looking quite put off.  Aggressive, but he looked like a bit of a fighter.  
  
"Son or daughter?" Sherlock asked right off the bat.  
  
Cranehill went a bit pale at that, a bit clammy even, but he did his best to act calm as he squeezed the door.  "I don't..."  
  
"Janessa Kellog.  Son or daughter?"  
  
"D-Daughter.  Oh God, you know about her?  Who are you?"  The man sounded so relieved to have someone asking.  That wasn't typical behavior for someone who killed his ex-girlfriend and stole his daughter from utter misery.  
  
"What's her name?" Sherlock asked, not caring for the questions being thrown at him.  
  
"Violet.  Did something happen?  Are you with the police?"  
  
"Yes, yes, no."  Two questions, three answers.  They were proper though.  Yes, something happened.  Yes, he was with the police.  No, he wasn't with the police.  Sherlock decided to nudge his way into Cranehill's house, to have a look around.  It was a tiny bit more orderly than Kellog's flat, but that wasn't saying much.  He looked over the walls, severely lacking in any pictures that were noteworthy of happy times in Cranehill's life.  "Janessa Kellog was murdered early this morning.  Violet is missing.  You're a suspect.  You would do well to answer everything.  When did you last see her?"  
  
"I've not."  When Sherlock tilted his head, Cranehill laughed weakly, stumbling back and covering his face.  "That woman wouldn't let me," he spat.  "And no one would help because she managed to fool everyone, even child services.  I don't know how she did it.  I just wanted to see my daughter.  My sisters were the only ones who believed me.  And Hannah."  
  
"Hannah?" Sherlock asked passively as he looked at some pictures he finally found at the end of the front room, randomly hammered to the wall.  Depictions of a man with a happy, if unrefined, family were scattered in those frames.  He was a family oriented man.  No wonder he would fight so hard to get access to his daughter.  But he was unhappy and subconsciously preparing for happy memories on the rest of his walls when he'd get his daughter.  
  
"My girlfriend.  Current--Current girlfriend."  
  
"Oh, good," Sherlock said, snidely.  "I hope your taste improved."  
  
Bitter as he was, Cranehill frowned.  "That's the mother of my child, you know."  
  
Clearly, it was more acceptable when Cranehill himself was insulting her.  Sherlock just turned to him, deciding to not acknowledge the comment at all.  "Other than you, your sisters and your girlfriend were the only ones aware of Violet's existence.  You're distressed.  They're supportive--"  
  
"They didn't do it, either!" Cranehill objected.  "What are the police doing to try to find Violet?"  He stepped forward with his demand, emphasizing it that way.  "Please, I'll do anything.  Blood test me, fingerprint me, I don't care.  I'll cooperate fully, and I know they will too."  
  
"Go on, then."  Sherlock turned to look around the house a bit more.  A laundry basket sat in the corner of the front room, full of unused toys for girls.  He was a desperate father.  
  
"I can't just leave with you here," the homeowner said as he grabbed his jacket.  
  
Sherlock rolled his eyes and headed for the front door once more.  People and their conventions.  Sherlock very, very rarely stole things.  It was impractical.  But he followed Cranehill out, passing him by as the man closed the door and locked up.  He had a car, a little red Vauxhall, that he unlocked the driver's door before looking to Sherlock.  "Oi, you want a ride?"  
  
The detective moved over and leaned down to look into the vehicle.  It was a filthy mess, which was the sign of someone who was going to be a horrific driver.  Dirt everywhere.  The car was used to get Cranehill to where he needed to be, and for little else.  "Nope," Sherlock replied.  He'd rather walk.  
  
There was no reason to believe Cranehill would do anything but go to the closest police station to start talking to police.  Besides, Sherlock's coat would get dirty.  
  
As he was walking, leaving Cranehill to stare at his back, bemused, his phone chimed with an incoming text message.  Even as he unlocked his phone, the blue light at the top continued, unrelenting.  The text was from Lestrade.  
  
 _ **bod is redy**_  
  
Sherlock hated having to interpret stupid.  
  
***  
  
The inspection of Kellog's body provided very little about the idiot and for the idiot in the scene investigation group, but it provided quite a bit for Sherlock.  Toxicology reported no alcohol, no drugs.  There hadn't been any sign of forced entry, so it was an approved visitor.  And that visitor took his time.  The cuts were remarkably professional for how messy with blood the apartment was.  Sherlock was fascinated.  Who, with that level of skill, would associate with such a societal failure as Janessa Kellog?  
  
"But he's not that high society," Sherlock remarked as he walked around the autopsy table, doing circles around the skittish Molly Hooper and the frankly disgusted Greg Lestrade.  
  
"So, not like Jack the Ripper?  That's what the media has been tossing around," Lestrade said with a snort.  
  
It was Sherlock's turn to look disgusted.  "Jack the Ripper wasn't 'high society', he was a mentally ill Polish immigrant, and you should know that.  So, exactly like Jack the Ripper, but not."  
  
"What?" the Detective Inspector asked after trying to process what in the hell Sherlock just said.  Lestrade, as intuitive as he was slowly becoming to Sherlock, still didn't always understand the tangents that the man would go off on.  His eyes were wide; his mouth gaped a little at that moment.  
  
"It doesn't take a genius to gut a person and cut them apart for trophies.  Ovaries are round, and everyone likes round things."  Sherlock used his rubber gloved hand to lightly hover over one of the cuts.  "Anyone can wield a knife and dismember a person."  
  
Lestrade, still gaping, looked at Molly.  She flushed a little before looking off to a random spot on the floor.  No one said anything, because Sherlock was on a roll and wouldn't be listening to them until he was ready.  
  
"But look at this, look at these lines."  Sherlock pointed down one of the most obvious lacerations that started the flaying process on her arm.  "Molly!  Pay attention!"  
  
"I'm sorry!" she started, looking at the man with wide eyes.  
  
"What do you see when you look at this?" Sherlock asked as he continued hovering his fingers over the fine cuts in Kellog's flesh.  
  
Molly moved close, gently spreading the wound with gloved fingers.  "It's the same as cutting apart fish.  Not really even metaphorically," she said with her voice unsure because she was never confident when Sherlock was there.  Sherlock stared at her over the 'metaphorically' part and she closed her eyes, trying to remember to keep her mind level.  And to breathe.  Breathing was good.  "Someone who has experience with preparing fish would cut like this."  
  
"She doesn't look like a fish," Lestrade remarked.  
  
Sherlock ignored him pointedly.  "It was a laborer, likely a fisherman.  The cuts were professional but the mess left shows that he's used to the gore that is common with animal slaughter.  He didn't think highly of her because he just left her there, but she had to know him because there was no forced entry and barely any sign of a struggle.  Do you have a timeline yet, Molly?"  
  
"I... oh, yes."  He meant with the wounds.  She moved over to her clipboard, slowly and tenderly working off her surgical gloves.  "She was alive for the wounds delivered to her arms.  He was seated on top of her, b-but didn't do anything sexual to her."  
  
"Sadists rarely need to," Sherlock said flatly.  
  
Molly hesitated, because he broke her train of thought and she was reminded that he was right there, right there and talking to her.  "Sh-She likely lost consciousness then.  She died by the time he got to her legs.  Bleeding was pooled inside of her more there than anywhere else.  H-Her heart would have been stopped."  
  
"He took his time, in other words."  Molly nodded, staring at the huge smile on Sherlock's face.  "A sadistic laborer taking his sweet time butchering a horrible mother and stealing her daughter she denied the existence of to the world?"  Sherlock grinned as he straightened, clapping his gloved hands together.  "This is too good!"  
  
"Sherlock!" Lestrade scolded.  
  
But it was too late.  Sherlock was walking for the door with a flourish.  "Get the men, we're going to the river!  Or at least, living nearby."  
  
"No one fishes in the river Thames in these parts," Lestrade argued as he walked after Sherlock.  "Unless they want to die from poisoning or give birth to children with five arms."  
  
"Don’t be silly.  Besides, a man of the sea is always a man of the sea."  
  
***  
  
Sherlock had a methodology to everything he picked.  Everything he saw had a story, and it was based on systematic likelihoods.  As much as criminals tried to not look like 'the creepy man in the lighthouse', they always managed to have a way to look exactly as that.  It was often a 'hindsight is 20/20' sort of thing for normal people.  
  
In the case of their murderous fisherman, he would be attracted to staying near the water.  London rains wouldn't do it for him.  He would need to hear the water, rippling across the shore, and the sound of boats carrying along the waves.  It would be conducive to hiding a child there, as well.  
  
Well, if he had Violet in his possession still.  There was no question that their murderer took the child.  Forensics confirmed that the same man that took out Kellog tampered with the door holding the little girl.  There were no traces of fresh blood belonging to a male or second female, so he hadn't hurt Violet when he took her.  More importantly (to Sherlock), it meant that he wasn't hurt.  Kellog could have put up a decent fight in life, so unless she had trusted him right to the point of injury, he had to be a titan of a man to not get some sort of defensive wound.  
  
Or he was dressed for the occasion.  Fisherman gear was heavy, of leather and rubber.  If he showed up in that outfit at the right time, no one would have noticed and he would have been armored against her.  He didn't see the man wearing a large, yellow raincoat.  That would have been harder to conceal than the other.  Especially if he was a large man.  It wouldn't have been tucked into a bag of his tools, because there was no evidence of anyone being in the bathroom at that time other than Kellog herself.  Sherlock would have liked to believe if someone showed up in a yellow poncho, carrying a tool set, then maybe something was weird.  If he was in his normal fishing attire, there would be no reason to suspect something ill was coming.  
  
Sherlock mulled over the information as he stared at his phone.  He watched that little blue light that mysteriously showed up a little after John went on holiday blink in and out in equal times.  His mind was too fixated on the case to be arsed, however.  It was becoming a nice, comfortable, normal little thing.  
  
He would be irritated with it again when the case was over.  Or sooner.  Who knew?  He didn't even know.  
  
The twenty-four hour mark was approaching, which was the universal trouble mark for missing children.  If a child was gone for twenty-four hours, the likelihood of them being found alive vastly decreased.  But Sherlock was confident Violet was still alive.  He hated to admit it, and wouldn't aloud, but it was a gut feeling.  Sherlock didn't like instincts and gut feelings, because they had such painful variables that he couldn't stand... but something in the evidence that he read in his subconscious told him that Violet was alright.  
  
He'd taken a taxi to one of the search sites that looked the most promising after some sort of information given to Lestrade as they prepared to leave.  It was inconvenient, but he wanted to be alone and Lestrade was giving Anderson a ride to the scene.  Not even his own crew wanted to ride with him after some infraction that no one was talking about but was obvious in their interactions, and Sherlock wasn't about to spend a twenty minute drive in a closed cabin with the man.  He would be blind by the time they got there, and likely drooling on himself.  
  
He paid his driver and stepped out, once again pocketing his blue, blinking phone.  The scene at that small apartment complex was unexpected.  It was definitely the place, he heard one officer say as he passed by.  They cross referenced it back to Jordan Cranehill's girlfriend, and to Janessa Kellog, as a former place of residence for them.  
  
But there was none of the normal excitement from the officers that came with finding a criminal.  No screaming for him to get on the ground, and no dragging the criminal out, kicking and screaming.  In fact, people were moving around, but they weren't running around, excited in their simple little ways.  "What's going on?" he asked as he finally rejoined Lestrade, who was leaning on the hood of his car with his arms folded over his chest.  
  
"We were cross referencing domestic dwellings, this was one that had two names in common: the victim, and the girlfriend of the victim's ex.  First responders found a man named Gary Johnson dead in his flat, one that Janessa Kellog used to be registered under.  He was cut apart."  
  
"The same as Kellog?" Sherlock asked, watching the building in youthful wonder.  
  
"No.  I mean, I'm not Molly or you, but Anderson--"  He paused to watch Sherlock roll his eyes.  "--says it's not the same."  
  
"No child?"  
  
"Evidence of, but no."  
  
Sherlock snorted and proceeded for the building.  He wasn't feeling as talkative all of a sudden.  He didn't really realize it himself, but with the clock reaching the twenty-third hour, it was less funny than it would have been before.  And there was still the question of if Johnson was even associated with the situation.  He could have just been a victim of some other criminal.  
  
The apartment was small, worn, but tidy.  Memorabilia decorated the walls from various fishing exploits that Johnson had been up to.  In the kitchen, only a bit larger than Kellog's, a proper booster seat sat in one of the table chairs, and a half eaten bowl of soup sat in front of it.  
  
A chain lock on the front door was broken out of the wall, with a foot impression in the wood showing forced entry.  
  
And then there was Gary Johnson.  He was cut up in a brutal, blitz style fashion.  Blitz attacks were often the result of an angry, crazed individual.  Not someone calculated and calm as Kellog's killer had been.  Severe defensive injuries and much destruction to the scene around the crime was expected.  Deep stab wounds that had been thrown with extreme force had actually punctured his skull in several places.  He would have never survived the attack.  It was clear, more than ever, that there was a deadly game afoot, involving little Violet.  
  
So humorless at that point, Sherlock didn't even react as Anderson walked up to him with a camera in his hands.  What followed was a very rare, diplomatic conversation between the two.  
  
"Thoughts?" Anderson asked apprehensively.  It was obvious he expected Sherlock to pounce--and he was ready to return the attack.  
  
"The kidnapping was deliberate, but he was treating her at least mildly better than her mother had been," Sherlock said with his voice devoid of any emotion, one way or the other.  He didn't get it.  "Whoever did this knew the girl was here."  
  
"The father?"  
  
"Possibly.  The killer had high amount of rage and strength.  It's unlikely a woman did it."  
  
Sherlock moved around the body of Gary Johnson, regarding him with a considering gaze.  He was large, as Sherlock figured he would be.  He was a fisherman, as Sherlock guessed.  The only thing he didn't think was that the man would have treated Violet with any humanity.  He was still waiting to hear what horrible things forensics would find in their search of the single bedroom.  
  
There was a laptop left undisturbed, Sherlock found, nestled between the far wall and the couch.  It was plugged in, and still charging.  He dropped down and pulled it out, the couch already cleared in his mind as evidence.  There was nothing odd there.  
  
The laptop was a dinosaur, but as Sherlock rarely used technology outside his phone or stealing John's laptop, he didn't seem to mind.  By that point, his lack of flare and argumentativeness with the scene investigators was being passed around, and it seemed they were giving him a wider berth than normal.  Sherlock didn't mind, because it meant not having to get asked stupid questions he would need to berate them for.  
  
Finally, it loaded its desktop, showing a serene picture of a man and his dog.  The space was sparse, with only five icons aligning the top.  Icons for the browser, the recycle bin, a couple of programs Sherlock didn't care about, and the file explorer.  
  
A widget appeared on the screen a bit later, giving speedy access to Gary Johnson's email.  Sherlock tilted his head and accessed the entire program when he noticed an email entitled wHAT'S IT LIKE BEING A DADDY? ;)  
  
\----------  
  
 **To:** Gary Johnson  
 **From:** Jimithy Liechmann  
 **Subject:** wHAT'S IT LIKE BEING A DADDY? ;)  
  
sO WHAT'S IT LIKE?  iS IT FUN?  iS IT EVERYTHING YOU DREAMED OF?  wHAT IF IT ALL ENDS?  wHAT IF THEY CATCH YOU?  aRE YOU WORRIED ABOUT THAT?  
\---  
 **To:** Jimithy Liechmann  
 **From:** Gary Johnson  
 **Subject:**   Re: wHAT'S IT LIKE BEING A DADDY? ;)  
  
You didn't tell me she was being thrown in a closet like a used pair of shoes.  
\---  
 **To:** Gary Johnson  
 **From:**   Jimithy Liechmann  
 **Subject:**   ;(  
  
wHAT'S THE MATTER?  iT'S LIKE FIXING AN ABUSED DOG.  i THOUGHT YOU WOULD BE HAPPY, BEING AN ANIMAL LOVER.  
\---  
 **To:** Jimithy Liechmann  
 **From:** Gary Johnson  
 **Subject:**   Re:  ;(  
  
She's a child, not an animal.  I don't think I can do this.  She should be with her father.  Because she has one, and he wants her, doesn't he?  You're not the only one with resources.  
  
I'm going to take her to him.  
\---  
 **To:** Gary Johnson **  
From:**   Jimithy Liechmann  
 **Subject:**   ;D  
  
aND GET ARRESTED?  
  
i CAN'T LET YOU DO THAT, gARY.  
  
yOU BELONG TO ME, gARY.  
\---  
 **To:** Jimithy Liechmann  
 **From:** Gary Johnson  
 **Subject:**   Re:  ;D  
  
You can't stop me.  
  
\----------  
  
But obviously Jimithy Liechmann could stop him.  There was something that panged with familiarity with the transaction.  Whatever it was, Sherlock didn't want to think on it too much.  It would get in the way and possibly make him biased.  
  
The computer provided little else about the man.  He wasn't into anything bizarre or illegal.  So how did he get caught up in a murder and kidnapping scam?  And what the hell was so important about Violet that there was someone bargaining with him, 'Kill this woman and you can have a brand new daughter'?  
  
Whatever was going on, it was clear the death of the girl wasn't on anyone's mind aside from the police.  She'd received semi-proper care and, so long as she didn't have some horrible infection from prior injuries, she would continue to get better.  They just needed to figure out where she was next.


	3. Part Three

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Getting closer to finding the child, and figuring out who started the chain of events that led to her disappearance.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for reading this far! I appreciate it <3

Sherlock did so love boggling cases.  
  
He would never admit to cases he couldn't solve, but he loved the ones that were difficult, especially for him.  
  
The reports on the emails said that the IP of Jimithy Liechmann stemmed from Bosnia.  Obviously, that was absurd.  Lestrade was going on about the concern that it was some sort of slave trafficking situation.  He didn't honestly think it to be the case and his body language said that much, but Sherlock knew that someone else was likely going on about it and getting his hackles to rise.  Simple minds were always trying to overcomplicate things where they weren’t.  
  
His consulting detective was seating casually in an interrogation room, feet propped on the table and twirling his phone in a hand.  The blinking blue light was becoming an irritation again, and he wished he didn't have to pay attention to that and the case.  It was taking up valuable attention from him better served trying to figure out where the writer was from.  The use of the caps lock key was an attempt to mask any written tone.  Whether people believed it or not, typed words always chimed with a certain tone that was reflective of their person.  
  
When Lestrade sat down across from him, Sherlock pocketed his phone and folded his hands over his chest, fingers laced.  "It's not trafficking of a child."  
  
Lestrade seemed relieved to hear it, but he did lean forward as he said, "But it could be possible."  
  
"Possible but not probable," Sherlock replied as he stared at something on the wall.  "Whoever the emailer is, he's playing a game and using a child to do it.  So it's emotional blackmail, if anything, in a very deadly game."  
  
"Have you made any conclusions yet?"  
  
"It's not the father."  Sherlock spat that out quickly, since detectives were still interviewing the father as they spoke.  He rocked a little in his chair, not dropping his feet, thinking through his conversation with Jordan Cranehill.  "Have you spoken to his sisters and his girlfriend yet?"  
  
"We haven't done, no.  We were looking to pick them up though."  
  
"Do it," Sherlock replied.  "Namely the girlfriend.  She had ties to Johnson, as you know.  Let me speak with her."  
  
"Only after us," Lestrade replied.  He knew Sherlock too well to not perform his interview first.  
  
Sherlock nodded, his eyes still focused on something and yet nothing.  He was lost in thought.  
  
The sisters and the girlfriend supported Cranehill's mission.  But only 'Hannah' had a connection to Gary Johnson out of the lot.  Gary Johnson was connected to Janessa Kellog.  Gary Johnson also kidnapped her daughter and killed her.  
  
Perhaps Hannah was tired of seeing the agony her boyfriend was in, and decided the only way to make him happy was to retrieve the daughter by hired hands.  Gary Johnson, knowing Janessa Kellog, could have gained entry to her flat without argument from her.  Considering his affection shown to Violet in that short time, he perhaps stood behind his actions with an anger matching Cranehill.  
  
The emails, however, needed to be considered.  Sherlock tilted his head as he evaluated the words in his mind.  They were emotionally abusive, by a normal person's standards, trying to bait the man into keeping a child that wasn't his.  Unless Hannah was a sadistic maniac, it was most likely that a door was opened by someone like...  
  
...Sherlock twitched and threw himself up from his chair and walked out of the interview room.  The direction in which he was taking his conclusions was absurd and he needed to walk it off.  He needed to clear his mind.  It was so absurd because he couldn't have possibly been that lucky to have someone sophisticated like that involved.  
  
***  
  
Hannah Ecks was actually a fairly attractive woman.  She had a soft face and brown hair just long enough to pull back into a ponytail.  She didn't wear brand names, and what she wore was often so, but she seemed educated and well-balanced.  So normal and average.  
  
Sherlock suspected her more than ever.  
  
Lestrade was sitting in the room with Ecks, hands clutched together on the table.  Only he knew that Sherlock was watching on behind the two way mirror.  Well, him and Detective Donovan, sitting in the corner of the room, spending half her time glaring at Sherlock’s head and the other half watching the interview.  
  
"So, you'd never seen Violet, had you?"  
  
"No."  Her voice was smooth, but clearly nervous.  "But I believed Jordan.  It's hard enough to find a man who wants to be a dad, let alone fight like that when no one believes he is one."  
  
Jaded words from a woman clearly with father issues.  
  
Lestrade nodded, reaching inside a manilla folder.  "Good fathers are hard to come by, you're right."  He was playing the 'good cop' role.  Lulling her to be calmer.  "Are you familiar with this man?" he asked as he laid out a picture of Gary Johnson.  
  
Taking in a sharp breath, it was with an obvious amount of hesitation that Hannah nodded.  It was as though she needed to work out whether she wanted to be connected to him or not.  "He was my old flatmate.  Well.  He let me sleep on his sofa before I met Jordan."  
  
"Just friends?"  
  
"Yeah."  She looked at Lestrade with light brown eyes, worry flashing over them.  It seemed she wanted to say something important, but she just came back with an additional reaffirmation.  "Just friends."  
  
"He's a good man?"  
  
"Yes," she said.  Crossing her legs, Hannah started to bob the one a bit as she turned away in her seat.  
  
She was uncomfortable.  People crossed their legs outward from others who made them uncomfortable.  
  
"What was his connection to Janessa Kellog and Violet?"  
  
"Janessa moved out from his flat just before I moved in," she answered, eyes averted.  "He didn't know she was pregnant.  First trimester, from what Jordan has said.  Four some years ago.  But he always goes on about how she would be a terrible mum.  Terrible.  She wasn't a bright woman, and was more keen on having fun and working her little job.  That's why Jordan and she initially broke up, you know?  Because she wasn't mature."  
  
"And Violet is definitely Jordan's?  Not Gary's?"  
  
"Gary... Gary isn't like that," Hannah said.  "That's not his thing."  
  
Lestrade hummed at that, catching what she meant and not pressing that further.  "When did he discuss Janessa's murder with you?" he asked.  Sherlock realized he was pressing at her gently, but was progressively getting more aggressive.  It was proactive in movement, so Sherlock behaved himself (not that he was sure how long he could resist going in there).  
  
Hannah's recoiled against the back of her seat.  Her eyes went wide as she stared at the ground.  "He didn't."  
  
A bad liar.  Sherlock wanted to go in there right then, and yell at her to stop lying.  She was just so bad at it, so he saw no reason for her to be doing it.  No one had any business lying if they couldn't at least look halfway clever and legitimate about it.  
  
After exactly three seconds of that sort of rant in his head, Sherlock did exactly that, much to the astonishment of Donovan.  
  
"Oh, yes he did," Sherlock piped as he flung the door open and then shut again as he went to stand by the table.  Lestrade placed a hand over his eyes, clearly wanting to groan out loud.  "You wanted to make Jordan happy, so you convinced Gary to do it, didn't you?  To kill her, kidnap Violet, and take her to you and Jordan in likely some grand scheme.  Or perhaps he’d let her walk the street and be found, even calling anonymously to the police to report it?  Let an anonymous caller tell police to look inside an abandoned building where she was left?  Come on, what was the plan, Hannah?"  
  
Hannah started at the abrupt interruption and stared at Sherlock, color draining from her face.  "I didn't tell him to kill Janessa!" she argued.  "I told him to just get to Violet when she wasn't able to pay attention--get her drunk or something, you know?"  Her words shook with frustration, worry--and at least at some level, emphasized honesty.  
  
Sherlock's face grew with a slight smile as he started to write out a timeline in his head.  A loyal girlfriend trying to vindicate her boyfriend and reunite him with the daughter he never even saw.  A common friend who could get in without forcing entry, with the orders to just disable her inhibitions before taking the child.  Since Janessa Kellog never acknowledged her daughter's existence to the world, she wouldn't be able to go to the police.  Especially if the child was discovered to be as abused as it seemed.  
  
Cranehill would get his daughter, Kellog would be trapped, everyone would be happy.  But Gary Johnson killed Kellog, and the child was missing.  Johnson was dead, so he couldn’t speak for his own actions the night he went to Kellog’s house, but Sherlock suspected it was a combination of internal desire to see a human die at his hands and the whispering of a little email devil on his shoulder that prompted him to execute Kellog.  Inevitably, Cranehill was the most innocent party.  
  
So, the chain of events.  Ecks asks Johnson.  The email devil catches wind.  Encourages him to eliminate Kellog, as opposed to just get her drunk, to fulfill some sort of desire.  The email devil encourages him to keep Violet since Johnson clearly had a paternal instinct.  He rejects the encouragement.  The email devil kills him, and takes Violet.  But why?  Who was left to mess with?  
  
"We need to figure out who the emailer is," he said to Lestrade as he turned and headed out.  Lestrade could stay there and read her rights to her.  Sherlock was headed for the Computer Forensics lab.  
  
***  
  
Computer Forensics had a duo of odd people who worked diligently enough.  They were less annoying than some people who worked a similar job, and were happy enough to show Sherlock what they were able to dig up on the laptop which had been significantly sped up with authority-approved modifications on its technology.  They were the only two people who didn't seem to get outright offended when Sherlock was… well, himself.  
  
That possibly could have been because technology wasn't necessarily as important to him if it wasn't related to science or invading personal accounts.  
  
"We were able to find more email that came from that weirdo trying to get him to keep the girl," Aaron Maynor said as he opened up a few windows for Sherlock to look at.  "They're dated in the week before he actually killed Kellog."  
  
"Any luck trying to isolate the location of this person?" Sherlock asked.  He sat in a chair behind them, spinning in circles idly.  
  
"None at all," Maynor replied.  "But look at this."  
  
He pulled up an email that confirmed everything Sherlock believed happened.  He stopped spinning and scooted in to read.  
  
\-----  
 **To:**   Gary Johnson  
 **From:** Jimithy Liechman  
 **Subject:**   Re:  iMAGINE iT  
  
 _ **> > == Gary Johnson Said: ==**  
 **> >>> **I will admit I've thought about it._  
  
wHO HASN'T?  iMAGINE THE FEEL OF A HEART STOPPING AND THE WARMTH OF A BODY SLOWLY FADING AWAY.  nO ONE WILL BLAME YOU.  yOU'RE JUST MAKING A NATURAL STEP IN YOUR MENTAL EVOLUTION.  dO WHAT I SAY AND NO ONE WILL EVER FIND OUT THAT YOU DID IT.  
  
i'LL EVEN PAY YOU GREATLY FOR YOUR EFFORTS.  
\-----  
  
Sherlock's eyes widened at the end of that email, his mind immediately rolling into overdrive.  He looked between Maynor and his colleague, Kimberly Wright.  "Was Johnson paid?"  
  
"We're waiting for his bank to give us his account information," Wright said.  She leaned towards Sherlock and, when he backed up in his seat because of that, she didn't really react.  They understood.  "We're running as many traces as we can, but if you can give us a lead, that would be great, Sherlock."  
  
"British.  The emailer is definitely British.  Highly intelligent, because he's taking so many precautions."  It had to be Moriarty, but no one would catch him.  No one would, but...  "The location of the first UK IP you find, text it to me and let Lestrade know."  
  
"Why?" Maynor asked.  
  
Sherlock swept to his feet, allowing the rolling chair to coast along until it hit a table.  He started for the door, saying over his shoulder, "We'll find the child there."  
  
***  
  
Why would he bother himself with such mundane individuals?  None of them were special.  Hannah Ecks was intelligent for an average human, but Gary Johnson didn't seem to be of any considerable amount of ingenuity as his cab driving killer friend had been.  Moriarty was playing a fickle game with small people.  
  
Sherlock was sitting at his desk, cleaning off his new skull that he was merely using as an experiment.  No skull could replace his companion sitting across on the fireplace.  Molly would be getting the new one as soon as he was finished.  It helped him think in place of his violin, which was currently suffering a case of broken strings that he needed to replace.  He would be getting on that as soon as the current case was solved.  Playing helped, fixing not so much.  
  
His phone sat nearby, still blinking on and off with that blue light, beckoning at a man not currently interested in it.  He was less interested when Lestrade arrived at his door.  "Sherlock."  
  
No response.  Sherlock heard him, but was still busy with his head.  
  
Lestrade paced in, hands in his coat pockets.  "Sherlock, we--is that a human head?" he stammered, locking his teeth as he stared.  
  
"I told the Computer Forensics team to text me when they found the address."  
  
After a couple of blinks and a cough, Lestrade refocused.  "They didn't find it.  999 received an anonymous call."  That caught Sherlock's attention enough that he lifted his eyes to Lestrade.  He didn't say anything or pull away from his hunched, working position.  "It said you'd know the place.  'Sherlock's special swimmy place' was what the recording offered from the call taken."  
  
That was enough to tell him where to go, indeed.  He swung up to his feet, leaving the half-cleaned skull right there to greet Mrs. Hudson if she came in to clean up a bit (despite not being his housekeeper), and went to get his scarf and coat.  "It does mean something to you, then?"  
  
"Not at all," he replied in that tone of voice that denoted that Lestrade was a moron.  "I'll text you once I've got the child."  He tied off his scarf and started out, intending to leave Lestrade right there.  
  
"Goddamn it, Sherlock," Lestrade barked as he followed Sherlock out the door and down the stairs from his flat.  "You can't keep going to these places without telling us!"  
  
"Oh, you don’t really need to know."  Sherlock scrunched his nose rather sarcastically as he exited to the street.  “It’ll be quite boring.”  
  
But would it really?


End file.
